


Taken For A Ride

by parabolica (orphan_account)



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-09 23:11:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7820878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/parabolica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What starts as a stop for a late-night snack gives Tommy more to chew over than he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taken For A Ride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> Makes reference to 'Lockdown'.

Doughnuts are supposed to be a cop thing, but Tommy’s never cared for them. Too greasy when they’re cold, too hot to handle when they’re fresh out of the pan, indifferent at any other time. Not to mention all that sugar. Bad for you, and it makes a mess.

He prefers muffins. Good ol’ wholesome muffins, maybe with some bran for added fibre. He can pretend it’s a healthy snack even when the muffin is covered in cream-cheese frosting, especially if he picks off some of that frosting and tosses it into the trash on his way back to the car.

More from habit than for any other reason he’d parked beneath a lamp in a part of the lot that held fewer cars. As he strolls to the vehicle he idly scans the area, but most of his attention is on the cinnamon-banana muffin in its napkin and the more than halfway decent coffee in its waxed paper cup. He’s worked hard for these treats. A mountain of research scaled and conquered, and if Cyber Crimes hasn’t pinpointed the exact whereabouts of Ken Landry, a cyber-stalker with a penchant for gaslighting, it’s only a matter of time.

Tommy gets into the car and arranges the coffee and muffin within easy reach. He checks his surroundings and starts the engine. Local radio plays way too many ads at this time of night, but occasionally there’s an unbroken half-hour of rock. Not tonight, though. Just cheery-sounding voices assuring him about the best deals for bathroom tiles.

He turns the radio down low and drives one-handed, breaking off pieces of muffin with his other hand and taking the occasional swig of coffee. This far out of town and at this time of night, traffic is light.

The taste of frosting dissolving on his tongue, the rich scent of the coffee, the soporific burbling from the radio, all conspire to hide the truth from him. He’s just made the turn onto the freeway when he registers the difference in atmosphere, so subtle it’s like a faint breeze over the back of his neck.

“Hello, Detective Calligan.”

And really, given their track record, is it any surprise that he looks straight at the car dashboard? He’d know that voice anywhere... and every time he hears it, trouble follows.

Just not always the kind of trouble he wants to report.

Tommy finishes chewing the morsel in his mouth and swallows—choking on the job is not recommended—while stabbing his gaze over each component on the dash. Has Bubonic hacked the car’s computer again? Snuck in via his phone, mounted on the console and acting as sat nav? Or has the master hacktivist hijacked the radio and was broadcasting just for him?

As it turns out, it’s none of these things.

Bubonic uncurls from behind the driver’s seat. A scraping sound, hands and feet on fabric, and then the sudden loom of solid shadow in the rear view mirror almost gives Tommy a heart attack. “What the fuck!”

“Language, Detective.” Bubonic sounds faintly disapproving.

“The fuck! What the hell are you doing in my car?”

“I wanted a ride.”

Embarrassment flames across Tommy’s cheeks. Did he mean...? Surely not. The double entendre is a cheap shot, and Bubonic employs heavier arsenal.

“You wanted a ride,” Tommy repeats, laying on the sarcasm. “Was Uber not going your way?”

Bubonic tuts. “I don’t _pay_ for taxi rides.”

Of course not. Why would Bubonic have to pay for anything when it was the work of mere seconds for him to transfer empty funds—or someone else’s money—instead?

“You just admitted to fraud while in a police car.”

The exaggerated sigh ruffles Tommy’s hair. “This is your private vehicle, Detective. You may be a police officer, but that does not make this a police car. Please don’t try to argue semantics with me.”

Tommy shrugs. “I suppose you have a gun at my back.”

“You may suppose.”

That doesn’t answer the question, but Tommy isn’t going to take the chance. He’s learned never to underestimate Bubonic. He can, however, push until he finds the limits of Bubonic’s mood.

Taking advantage of the clear road, he weaves a bit, then more sharply as he avoids a pothole. He leans into the motion, left then right, and keeps an eye on the mirror, waiting to catch a glimpse of his passenger.

He’s out of luck. It’s dark in the back, and Bubonic takes care to remain upright, his face obscured by the headrest of the driver’s seat. All Tommy can see of him is a black coat, the shape of a shoulder, and occasionally the sodium-yellow glint of the street lamps bouncing from what he knows is wavy, dark chestnut hair.

From here he can’t see those blue eyes or that soft mouth. He can’t see the leather plague mask with its long, hooked beak.

Those same eyes and mouth and mask have haunted his dreams and waking thoughts since the last time they’d met. Although ‘met’ is the wrong term, since it implies an element of chance, and Tommy’s fairly certain that rigging the electrics in a building to obey your every whim and trapping a guy in an elevator just for a cosy chat is more deliberate than serendipitous.

He has a sip of coffee as he attempts to get his emotions under control. There are protocols for times like this. Be cool, stay on top of the situation, try to turn it to an advantage; basic shit he’d covered the first week at the academy. And yet every time he’s near Bubonic, all that stuff goes out the window. It’s like his brain has a seizure, one that jacks his heart-rate and plumps his dick. This must be what computers feel when Bubonic creeps his way into their systems. If computers could feel, that is.

“I can hear you thinking,” Bubonic says. “It’s very distracting.”

“I’m sorry it’s not in strings of ones and zeroes to make it easier.”

Bubonic snorts. “Really, Detective, you believe I’m so binary?”

Tommy is so not trading jokes with this guy. “No, seriously,” he says, because it’s about time he got serious, “what are you doing? Why are you here?”

“Why is the sky blue?” Bubonic chirps, child-like, and then he falls silent for a thoughtful moment. “I suppose it would be too much to ask you to believe this, but I’m helping you.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps I want you to like me.”

It’s Tommy’s turn to snort now. He remembers their exchange in the elevator after Bubonic had finger-fucked him into a mind-blowing orgasm. Yeah, they didn’t like each other, but he’d still kissed Bubonic afterwards, and he still doesn’t have any of those regrets Bubonic had predicted he’d have.

“I thought you hated me.” Tommy glances into the rear view mirror, weighing his next words. “Blamed me.”

Another gusty sigh. “Blame is so medieval.”

“So are plague doctors.”

“Ah, but I’m not Bubonic tonight.” Pressing his face against the back of the headrest, Bubonic darts his tongue through the gap and licks Tommy’s nape. “See? No mask.”

A shiver cuts up Tommy’s spine at the soft, damp touch. Arousal jolts him into the embrace of the driver’s seat. Even after Bubonic sits back, he can still feel it, the track of tongue over his short-clipped hair, the serpentine coil of it tickling and teasing.

Tommy wishes he could see into the back seat. “Who are you, then?”

Bubonic makes a considering noise. “You can call me Charlie. And, in answer to your question, I thought it was only fair that I offered my assistance, given that I seem to be taking up so many of your thoughts these days.”

The remark is so unexpected, so unnervingly accurate, that Tommy loses control of the steering wheel for a split-second. The car slews, as jerky and erratic as Tommy’s pulse, and a truck on the other side of the road honks a warning.

“Careful, Detective,” Bubonic admonishes in a mild tone. “Eyes on the road.”

Tommy forces himself to laugh. He’s sweating. “I walked into that one. Lucky guess, right?”

“No, actually. The therapist overseeing your psych evals is remarkably thorough. Her reports make for fascinating reading, although someone should really encourage her to tone down the florid style. It’s not as if her notes will ever be turned into fiction, is it?”

He pounds his hand against the wheel. “Son of a bitch!”

“Calm yourself, Tommy.” The bastard sounds like he’s enjoying this. “We don’t want to have an accident. Trying to explain my presence at the scene would be quite a task, even for you.” Bubonic pauses, leaning forward so his breath tickles Tommy’s ear. “By the way, turn left here.”

Tommy obeys, his heart beating fast at the thought of how he’d spilled his guts to the therapist. _Shit_. He should’ve known better. Nothing was sacred as far as Bubonic was concerned. Not even the seal of Hippocratic silence. He won’t make that mistake again.

Focusing on his surroundings, Tommy realises they’ve left the freeway and are heading for a residential area. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll know when we get there. I assure you it’s nowhere sinister. No building sites with freshly-laid cement or bridges spanning fast-moving rivers. You should know by now that isn’t my style.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean you won’t lock me in a room full of servers and white noise until I go crazy.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Maybe he’s imagining it, but Bubonic almost sounds offended. “I have no real wish to harm you, Detective Calligan.”

“Right.” Tommy rolls his eyes at the rear view mirror. “So when you tricked that guy into punching my lights out because he thought I was screwing his girlfriend...”

Bubonic sniffs. “He was a little more unstable than I’d anticipated.”

“And my dog. You almost had my dog put down.”

“Is it my fault that the law regarding strays is so very draconian?” The tone is plaintive, a cry of innocence. “Turn right at the next junction.”

All this is getting them nowhere but their destination. Tommy sighs. “Bu— Charlie,” he corrects himself, “what’s this about, really?”

The silence from the backseat lasts so long Tommy thinks he’s not going to get an answer. Then Bubonic says, “Kenneth Landry is the type of person that gives hackers a bad name.”

And maybe Tommy shouldn’t argue, but he can’t help himself. “Oh, so hackers are a force for good?”

“Don’t be naive, Detective. The badge you carry doesn’t entitle you to be the only person capable of making a moral judgement.”

Tommy flashes a grin into the mirror. “Okay. So tell me about Landry.”

“He was... a pupil of mine, shall we say. Just for a little while. You have those heroic impulses; I occasionally like to mentor promising students. He never knew my identity, of course. These were never one-on-one tutorials. He was quick to learn, but also fast to anger.” Bubonic waves a hand in elegant dismissal. “None of that rage was ever directed towards me. He would always blame a woman—an ex-girlfriend, the nosey old biddy who lived across the road, a former teacher, the lady at the grocery store who’d given him the wrong change...”

His voice hardens. “I don’t like people with an excess of emotion. Thought processes become muddled by it. Code is emotionless, inert unless commanded otherwise. And I didn’t like the commands behind Landry’s code.”

Tommy nods. “Give a bully too much power and he becomes a monster.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Bubonic shifts closer, but not quite close enough to show his face in the mirror. “I am not a monster, Tommy.”

“I know that.”

A killer, yes; but not a monster. Not like Landry, whose cyber-networks targeted and harassed the women who’d passed through his life according to a random pattern that worsened day by day, until what seemed to be a run of bad luck took on a more sinister edge. And when those women mentioned it to their friends or to their boss or to the police, the activity dropped off for a while, lulling the women into believing themselves safe and possibly mistaken in what they’d experienced.

Then Landry would repeat the pattern, over and over, until the women were isolated and desperate, until they were driven beyond endurance and fled out of state or, as in two tragic cases, ended their own lives.

Those women died thinking no one believed them. Textbook gaslighting on a wide and sophisticated scale. It’s taken time for Cyber Crimes to build a case against Landry, because like most psychological abusers he’d been extremely careful to cover his tracks. But the trail exists, and now all they needed was the man himself.

“I can give you Landry.” Bubonic reaches between the front seats and takes a piece of muffin. The frosting glints as he picks it up.

Tommy listens to the sound of him eating, listens to him sucking his finger clean, and god _damn_ , that should not be a turn-on. “What do you want in return?”

“Nothing.”

“Really? No, wait, I remember now. You want me to like you.”

Bubonic chuckles, rich and soft. “But you already like me.”

Oh, he is so not going to argue when he can only lose. Tension rides Tommy’s body, and it feels a little too good. His grip tightens on the steering wheel.

Houses are coming into view now, big expensive houses with whitewashed walls and tall metal gates and plantings that obscure all but the smallest glimpse of the property. He hadn’t expected someone like Ken Landry to live here, but he wasn’t too proud to admit he could be wrong sometimes. “Just give me the damn address.”

Bubonic tells him.

Surprise jerks Tommy’s head up, makes him dart a glance into the mirror. “That’s miles away. That’s in the city.”

“So it is.” Amusement colours Bubonic’s tone. “I suggest you curb your heroic impulses and call in the information instead. Let your colleagues handle it. I’m sure they’re more than competent. Take the next left. Just a little further. Ah, here we are.”

Tommy lets the car slow to a halt on a stretch of private road. A security light flicks on, making him squint. Behind the glare he can see a double gate set into a curved wall and a driveway of white gravel flanked by laurel bushes.

“Much obliged.” Bubonic opens the door and gets out. He stands for a moment, then makes a gesture.

Tommy winds down the window and looks up, waiting.

The security lamp behind him casts a halo around Bubonic’s head but obscures the details of his face. Then he bends down and light spills over his features, gleaming in his eyes and the heat of his satyr’s smile.

“A kiss for the ferryman,” he says, and slants his lips over Tommy’s mouth.

They kiss like old lovers rather than enemies.

Seconds later, Bubonic is walking away.

Tommy’s tongue catches up with his brain. “Hey,” he calls out. “Charlie. If this isn’t Landry’s house, whose is it?”

Bubonic turns back. “Mine,” he says, and he’s still smiling. “Why, Detective, would you like to come inside?”

Without waiting for an answer, he slips between the open gates and heads up the drive, gravel crunching beneath his feet.

After a second, Tommy climbs out of the car and follows him.


End file.
